


The Letters

by emilyfuckingprentiss



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 13:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9659219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilyfuckingprentiss/pseuds/emilyfuckingprentiss
Summary: No one thought something so tragic could happen to their little family…until it did.





	1. David Rossi

**Author's Note:**

> This story does unfold around a suicide! Please do not read this is this is a trigger for you! If you wish to continue, please enjoy this rather bittersweet, emotional story. There is one original character, however, as always, the rest belong to the writers/creators of Criminal Minds. Thank you, please like and comment! :)

The tie around his neck deemed suffocating, no matter how many times he adjusted its hold. It was not truthfully the tie, he thought, that was weighing the air around him. Nor was it the solid black suit clothing his weakened body. The air around him seemed heavier and heavier with each slow step he took toward the expansive kitchen in the middle of his empty home. He swore he could still hear her chuckle about, across from him at the island, and though he knew he was alone, he looked just in case. Of course, she was not there as he stared passed the marble countertop to the gloomy sky, a window the only object between him and the cold downpour from the skies. He sighed loudly, leaning against the cabinets, the cabinets she had helped choose from a catalog. At first, he hated the decision, explaining to her that the color would be too far off the wooding of the floor. However, he caved, surrendered to the large dark eyes that stared at him with such wonder, with such curiosity to his words. He loved his cabinets.  
Every sound within his home seemed far louder in the silence of the dreadful morning, he thought. She would have laughed at the creaks in the flooring and the sighing of the walls, he recalled, reminding himself that she would no longer chuckle at even the slightest of noises. She would no longer offer to assist him with Sunday dinners. She would no longer call him on his birthday, usually around midnight to wish him the grandest of days, hours before arriving at the office with a usually far too large stuffed animal of some sorts and a balloon. She would no longer smile at him with the sunshine glistening from her grin, the crinkles adorable beneath her eyes. She would no longer send him colorful drawings of mythical creatures or animals of the known world, drawings he displayed proudly on the door of his stainless refrigerator. There were no more drawings to await, no more masterpieces to add to the grand collection. There would be no more pieces of art from her.  
Turning his attention from the scatter of dragons and wolves, he noticed the yellow envelope peeking from beneath a discarded pile of what were surely bills and advertisements. He remembered to the week previous when he had absentmindedly retrieved the mail from the designated box at the end of his driveway in the middle of the night, the night everything changed for the worse. The envelope had been in his hand, it had been in his car with him for he had received it at the office. Realizing he had managed to forget about the folded colorful paper with his name written beautifully on the front, he collected the envelope, slowly, gently opening it, sure not to tear the fragile paper. He pulled the carefully folded letter from within, blinking intrusive, blurring tears from his focused eyes, brows knitting with concern. Another exhale of emotion fluttered the top corner of the paper, and he began reading the words written for only his eyes:  
_Dear David Rossi,_  
_Thank you for the delicious Italian dinners. My favorite was the spaghetti, or maybe it was the ravioli last weekend. Either way, you are an amazing chef, who makes perfectly crafted dishes. Maybe if the whole BAU thing doesn’t work out again or if you get too tired to chase the bad guys anymore, you should consider opening a very fancy Italian bistro. Maybe, you know, if you want to._  
_I would also like to thank you for taking care of my mother, protecting her, and loving her like the father she needed. If you don’t mind, I have one request, never stop protecting her. She needs that, she forgets that she’s not invincible sometimes._  
A saddened, misery-laced chuckle fell from his quivering lips as he scanned his watery eyes over the kind, pleading words twice more. Single saltine drops raced down his rough cheeks, moistening the dark hair upon his face. “You got it, kiddo,” was all he could mutter, placing the letter down on the countertop. His mind retreated from the clean, empty kitchen around him to the Sunday dinner nearly two weeks previous, the same kitchen complied of agents and their families and children and food. She had stood beside him most of the afternoon, taking his lessons of ravioli and garlic bread very seriously. She had measured the ingredients precisely, even offered jokes about his other dishes from Sundays previous, how those meals weren’t her ravioli. She had confided in him of her passion for painting, her desire to pursue the career rather than illustration. The conversation was isolated from those around them, he was aware she trusted him with the information at that time particularly.  
Clearing his throat, he collected the keys from their discarded place on the counter, and headed toward the front door. Something captured his attention from the couch, the blurred stuffed lion the young woman had gifted him on his last birthday. He paused, standing in the empty living room, keys swinging in shaking fingers.


	2. Aaron Hotchner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story does unfold around a suicide! Please do not read this is this is a trigger for you! If you wish to continue, please enjoy this rather bittersweet, emotional story. There is one original character, however, as always, the rest belong to the writers/creators of Criminal Minds. Thank you, please like and comment! :)

The maroon envelope peaked from the pocket of his bag, sitting on the dining room table where he had left it the night before. He stared at the paper from the kitchen, hands wrapped around a heated mug of coffee. For the moment, his head seemed fairly blank, of which he was unaccustomed to. Though the world continued around him, the world that cried out, screaming with flashes of lightening illuminating dark skies, thunder rattling the house, he could not remove himself from the center of his kitchen, staring at that unopened, nearly forgotten envelope. He could not possess himself to move forward, to step toward the leather duffle, nor could he hear the gentle footfalls approaching him.  
“Daddy, can I bring this with us? I want to leave it with her so she will always remember what I look like,” the six year old stated, holding a black frame photograph that had recently been on his dresser. He collected the picture, looking at the twenty year old girl smiling, laughing with apparent happiness radiating in her crinkled eyes, dressed in the Yankees shirt she had requested from him for Christmas. Beside her stood his son, hugging her waist with his gap-filled smile proudly on display. Staring at the photograph caused his stomach to churn, the coffee he had consumed threatening to ruin his dark slacks. “How about we keep that one here? I’m sure she will always remember you, buddy,” he assured the child. He watched the six year old disappear quickly down the hallway, presumably to his bedroom to return the picture.  
Quietly, he sighed, placing the cooling mug on the dark counter, a single tear escaping the skillfully constructed dam behind his eyes. He glanced over his shoulder at the neglected maroon envelope, a waft of vanilla shampoo overtaking his senses, knocking down the restraints he had founded, the withhold of his flood. For the first time in the very straining week since he received the call he would have never thought of receiving, the phone call that changed the world as he had known it, he allowed himself the relief of crying. She would never return to his home, her beautiful, white smile lightening the room around him, to spend time with his young son. She would never attend another theatre with his son and himself in the middle of the day. She would never sit in his office sketching in her large pad, driving him crazy with the scratches of the pencil against thick paper.  
She would never show up, without his invitation, at his front door, carrying a pizza simply because his son had secretly called her. She would never offer to care for the young boy when the cases were far too long and far too straining. She would never be the reason his son rambled on day after day about trips to parks and art galleries and libraries and college classes. She would never tease her mother and him, offering to keep the young child in order for them to enjoy a night together with dinner and wine. She would never stand in his kitchen with the refrigerator door wide open, staring for what seemed was hours until she would decide there was nothing that peaked her interest. She would no longer sleep in his son’s room, wrapped up in superhero blankets on the floor beside the bed. She would no longer be a reason behind his son’s smile.  
“Daddy?” Sniffling, wiping the tears from his cheeks, he withdrew from the sorrowful trance to look at the six year old before him. A small child dressed in the nicest of blacks they could find, slacks ironed, tie straight. His hair was combed neatly, his buttons perfect down the expansive of his chest and abdomen, two black shoes shining upon the hardwood flooring. Looking from the polished shoes to his son’s dark, curious, sad eyes, he forced something of a smile onto his face, and he lifted the child into his arms, careful not to ruin his own dark tie. “Want to read something with me?” he asked, the boy nodding before placing his small head in the crook of his neck.  
Pace cautiously slow, breath abnormally steady, he carried the child to the dining room table, and collected to maroon envelope from its temporary home in the leather bag. With tender hands, he peeled the fold of the paper, opening to reveal the awaited, unknown letter within. “Daddy, who is it from?” He unfolded the lined paper slowly, carefully, seeing the words coming to life before him:  
_Dear Aaron Hotchner,_  
_I hope that Jack is doing well in school, and I hope that he doesn’t have as many nightmares anymore. He is a really good kid, mainly because he has a really good dad. I mean that, I really do, and you’re not just a great dad to Jack. Thank you for being a father figure to me over the years. I never thought I would find someone, besides mom, who would help me with my homework or take me to the baseball game. I’m still in shock that Jack managed to catch the homerun ball, but he deserved it._  
_I would also like to thank you for giving my mother a chance and showing her that all of her hard work was worth it. Thank you for protecting her time after time and believing in her, truthfully more than she believed in herself. She needed that, but we both know she will never admit it._


	3. Spencer Reid

Silence deemed heavy occupying the dark, shaded living room where he remained for the second hour, fingers toying at fingers upon the lap of his black slacks. He breathed deeply, ignoring the saltine streams flowing freely down the smooth skin of his fragile cheeks. Uncomforting warmth flushed from the confinements of his polished shoes to his shoulders covered by the dark button down shirt and matching knit cardigan. A desire to rid himself of the suffocating clothing washed over him, but he refused for it was nearing time for them to leave the empty, quiet home. And so he remained seated on the lifeless brown couch, staring at the outcry of the skies just beyond the glass door, withhold conversation with the equally silent man beside him.  
His drowning orbs flickered to the scatter of textbooks and papers and pencils and candy bar wrappers cluttering the coffee table from when she had requested his help with her calculus homework what seemed was a century ago. Despite his warnings of the varying chocolates, she continued eating them as he was seated across from her at the short table, scanning through her incorrect answers and fairly made up formulas. She snickered at him, telling him she truthfully believed she had accurately answered five of the twenty four questions, of which she had not. For a moment, the two of them had chuckled together, before he taught her the correct methods to calculate her answers. He told her it would take time for her to fully understand the course, and she had suggested he tutor her weekly in the subject to ensure she was on a positive path toward passing. He had agreed. That was three simple nights before the evening he had answered the phone to the heart shattering outcry. She would not be returning for a tutoring lesson.  
She would not come back for another night of popcorn and documentaries. She would not come back for another evening of cheeseburgers and trivia questions. She would not come back for another afternoon of grilled cheese and chess, even though she was never truly sure how to play. She would not come back for another morning of fresh donuts from the café that his lover bought as a surprise. She would not sleep over any longer, and she would not ask him for his help. She would not need his help ever again.  
Glancing from the clutter of books and papers, he turned his attention to the dark-skinned man beside him, leaning his head on the older man’s shoulder. He blinked languidly, exhaustion burning at the lids of his eyes, and his anxious fingers reached within the left pocket of his cardigan, retrieving the preserved green letter, his name in cursive across the front. For a moment, he simply held it, trembling within his fingers. He turned it over, staring at the sealed triangle. “Do you think I should open it?” he asked, his voice hardly louder than a quivering whisper. A larger hand covered his own, offering a gentle squeeze, yet the other man said nothing in response. He allowed his eyes drift from the paper within his hands to the dark orbs staring down at him, and he noticed the understood pain in approaching waters. He watched the older man’s eyes carefully, awaiting an answer, any answer because he was very uncertain of any of his decisions in the moment.  
The older man stood, releasing the weight on the couch he had not realized he was relying on. As he adjusted his position, he watched his lover ascend the wooden staircase, disappearing into their bedroom. He nodded to himself with a shuttering exhale, tightening his grasp on the envelope, slipping a finger between the seal. With subtle hesitation, he pulled the letter from within, exposing the handwriting across the crisp paper. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling slowly before flickering to read what he had purposefully ignored:  
_Dear Spencer Reid,_  
_You are such an incredible person, so intelligent and I still can’t wrap my mind around your knowledge. Thank you for helping me with my classes over the years. Thank you for answering my phone calls in the middle of the night regarding statistics or advanced physics. I don’t think I would’ve passed high school if it hadn’t been for you. It’s nice to see someone who prides themselves on their intelligence and uses that intelligence for good._  
_Thank you for also showing my mother compassion and understanding. Thank you for annoying her with rambling facts and your lack of knowledge in pop culture. Keep doing that. For me._


	4. Jennifer Jareau

Accidentally tearing the fragile corner of the orange envelope, a small rip in jagged cuts, she sighed loudly, rolling her oceanic eyes and rocking the infant on her hip back and forth. She carefully pulled the folded paper from within, dodging her head around her son’s to read the written message with precision. “Honey, can you please take Michael to the car?” she called for her husband from the cluttered dining room. She stepped over the scatter of colorful toys and half-empty bottles and random fish-shaped crackers and sticky gummy snacks. With a weakened smile, she handed the infant to the sweetest of men, noticing the glisten of his satin black tie, and glancing at the toddler, standing beside him clothed in his brand new black suit. “I’ll be out in a minute,” she promised with a languid blink of her eyes and another audible sigh. Her husband simply nodded, his attention focused on the young boys.  
Once she heard the front door practically slam with a gentle echo, aware her young boys were now out of the house, she returned to the letter still between her index finger and thumb. She blinked repeatedly, failing sorrowfully to rid her oceans of intrusive saltine tears. Knitting her brows, her free hand covering her quivering lips, she began reading the pencil scratched words:  
_Dear Jennifer Jareau,_  
_Thank you for trusting me with Henry and Michael. I enjoyed spending time with them, watching them whenever you had to work. They are both such delights, and I’ve learned that Mickey Mouse really isn’t that bad. Also, thank you for being there for me those times I needed someone other than my mother. You are such an amazing mother and person in general._  
_Thank you for being there for my mother. Thank you for loving her, JJ. For me, never stop loving her._  
Hands trembling, shaking, words becoming graphite blurs upon sapphire lines, she attempted to breathe to fill her empty lungs with the weighted air around her. Sharp, shivering inhales became excruciating knives in her narrowing throat. She swore she could feel the tender, welcoming embrace of the gentle twenty year old; she could feel steady arms wrapping around her body, holding her upward for her knees were weakening beneath her. She could just barely hear the quiet giggle of the young woman beside her ear, feel the dark hair brushing against her cheek as the embrace ended. Alone, standing over ignored toys and boring games and unfinished sippy cups and neglected crumbs, she sobbed into her the emptiness of the room.  
She heard the twisting of the knob, converting her attention from her own mind to the front door, though no one had touched it, no one had been on the other side. Staring at the golden knob, she buckled, falling to her knees, tears streaming endlessly down her foundation clad cheeks. Never would that young woman walk through that door, backpack and keys in hand, the brightest of smiles prominent on her face. Never would that young woman chuckle loudly with the young boys, promising them games of hide and seek and a night of cartoons. Never would that young woman cuddle into her side while crying about a girl who never deserved her, who never loved her. Never would that young woman knock on that door in the middle of the night, needing someone to hold her, to comfort her, to smooth her hair from her tear stained face. Never would that young woman return to her home, her mother behind her, pride radiating in dark eyes. Never would that young woman return.  
“I’ll never stop loving her, sweetheart,” she muttered through quivering, damp lips. “And I’ll never stop loving you.” Inhaling deeply, filling her lungs, she forced herself to stand, to regain the strength she knew she withheld, and her fingers clasped the back of a chair for support. The silence around her was uncomfortable, other than the memory of a beloved laughter.


	5. Penelope Garcia

The cotton appeared frigid, lifeless within her fingers, a thick, uncomforting fabric against her needy, trembling skin. Tears streamed in floods down her made up porcelain cheeks, and she shivered, holding the neglected sweatshirt against her heaving chest. A bittersweet aroma of fading vanilla lingered on the grey jumper, lacing her exhausted brain, forcing her crying eyes closed. She thought of the night only a month previous of which the twenty year old had forgotten the sweatshirt within her home after their rather long night of eating chocolates and watching sappy romantic movies. Those nights, she recalled, she had taken for granted for now they were to never happen again. She would never see the beautiful dark hair of the young woman or the smiling dark orbs that could lighten even the darkest of rooms. She would never hear the sweetest, most innocent laugh of the twenty year old, who chuckled at even the slightest of jokes. She would never be welcomed by the strong scent of vanillas and lavenders, and she would never be the one the girl would call after a tragic, horrific heartbreak.  
There were no more heartbreaks for the young girl staring from the picture across from her, decorating the now boring coffee table, that she was certain. She stared into those memorized dark eyes, wondering how long she had been hurting, pondering why she had not told anyone, had not told her. That girl would not be coming over for cheesy movie nights any longer. That girl would not be calling her to coo over puppies or kittens or penguins any longer. That girl would not be surprising her with knick-knacks for her desk or her bookshelves any longer. That girl would not be curling up beside her on the couch, staring at the television, mesmerized and intrigued by David Bowie any longer. That girl would not be dancing in her living room or singing in her shower any longer. That girl would not be there any longer.  
The young woman told her everything, she thought, when they had their famous sleepovers. Now, it appeared she had no knowledge of an entire universe that had swirled with chaos within the young woman’s mind. Nausea flushed from her stomach to her throat, threatening to release whatever had resided within her, for she had not eaten in what seemed was nearing a week. She sighed, reaching for the purple envelope beside the homemade picture frame, eyes remaining locked within those she would never see again.  
Holding the sweatshirt within one trembling hand and the unopened, unread letter in the other, she choked on her own narrowing throat, saltine tears slipping between her chapped, black lips. She allowed the jumper to fall upon the lap of her black lace dress, and began opening the envelope. Careful, shaking fingers removed the perfectly folded paper from within, before unfolding it, revealing the blurred words. Through the outpour of tears, she read:  
_Dear Penelope Garcia,_  
_Penelope Garcia, I don’t even know where to begin. You are the most amazing, free-spirited, unique person that has ever lived and that is my favorite thing about you. Thank you for reminding me to always have fun, always take a break when things get too rough, and to always tell those you love that you love them. Penelope, I love you. You have been a big sister to me since the day I met you. Remember the time we snuck to the mall right before they closed only to buy nail polish and cute mugs? Is yours still on your desk? Or remember the time we spammed Derek’s email with pictures for a scavenger hunt that led to his keys in Hotch’s office? He was not exactly pleased with us that night. Thank you for showing me how to hack into the school computers and teaching me about coding for my blog. It’s not as good as yours, but still, it’s nice._  
_Thank you, more importantly, for making sure my mother smiles and making sure she doesn’t take everything too seriously. Lives can be ruined that way, you know? Penelope Garcia, you are a wonder all on your own, and I hope you never forget how to sparkle the way only you can do. Also, please don’t let my mother take things too seriously, remind her that she has to smile really big and call her ‘angelfish’ every day. She loves it._  
A tsunami of emotion cascaded down her cheeks, stripping her face of any further make up. Her now weighted head fell heavily into the sweatshirt held up by her unsteady hands, and her legs bounced with discomfort, craving running to rescue a child already far gone. A hammering began behind her eyes, progressing rapidly to a pounding of her suffocating skull. She could no longer breathe, her body would not allow her. “Oh, my princess,” she cried out, voice echoing off the closing walls of the empty apartment. “I promise.”


	6. Derek Morgan

Hands trembling, he held the black framed photograph, staring at the smile on the twenty year old girl’s face. Cascades of tears streamed down his dark cheeks, a few finding their ultimate demise against the glass of the frame held just above his knees. “You could’ve told me things were that bad, baby girl. You could’ve told me you were hurting,” he mumbled, thumb smearing away a saltine tear that distorted her face beneath the thin glass. “You could’ve told me everything.” His grief streamed harder, floods pouring from his blinking lids, and he swore his heart was sinking with its cage, drowning itself in the overwhelming anguish. He remained still on the edge of the bed, foot tapping anxiously against the white carpet. No matter how long he stared into those memorized brown eyes, no matter how long he analyzed that wide, wide smile, he could not see even the slightest glimpse of pain within the young woman.  
He remembered the day the photograph had been taken, two weeks before the call, the screams and outcries that changed everything, changed his entire world from the beginning to the end. A stranger, he recalled, had offered to take the photograph of the quartet, his lover, him, the young woman, and her mother. It was an unplanned Friday night at the local carnival, the young woman calling to request he convince her mother to join them. Cotton candy and funnel cakes, twirling rides and rigged games occupied their cheerful, laughter filled night. The young woman had managed to persuade him onto the large Ferris wheel; she had seated herself across from him, chuckling on about his evident fear. Her smile burned permanent in his mind, and he swore many years previous to be a reason she smiled, never a reason she cried. Never had he broken that promise, especially the moment he won her the large stuffed alligator that her mother complained about for twenty or so minutes afterward.  
Never would she call him again to request they spend a night at the sketchiest carnival he had ever seen. Never would she call him again to rescue her from the bullies at school. Never would she call him again to change their Halloween costumes for the eleventh time. Never would she call him again to discuss the difference between insomnia and just not be able to sleep. Never would she call him again to laugh about Beyoncé memes or to remind him to listen to her latest favorite song. Never would she call him again to ask if they could spend a night watch Tyler Perry movies, or to share her latest art grade with him. Never would she call him again to cry about a girl who never appreciated her, or to ramble about a girl who threw her away like garbage. Never would she call him again.  
And never could he make her smile again.  
He reached into the cherry oak nightstand, collecting the thought of blue envelope, tearing the paper with ease to retrieve its contents. His body shook, trembled, his eyes oceans of tears blurring the paper before him. Daring a deep breath, he started at the first written word:  
_Dear Derek Morgan,_  
_Thank you, Derek Morgan. Thank you for the stuffed animals and chocolate that Valentine’s day that my girlfriend broke up with me. Thank you for the balloons and streamers and tiara on my last birthday. Thank you for taking my mother and me to see the fireworks the Fourth of July someone had slashed her tires. Thank you for taking me to the first day of high school, and picking me up two hours later without telling my mother. Thank you for being the Darth Vader to my Princess Leia on Halloween. I don’t know if my mother really enjoyed being a Stormtrooper. Thank you for painting my room and building my bed frame. Thank you for fixing my ceiling fan and helping me cover that hole in the wall._  
_Thank you for being there for my mother and me throughout the years. Without you, I’m not sure if our house would’ve remained in such perfect condition, or if our holidays would have been, well, holidays. Finally, thank you for protecting and loving my mother. She needs you, even if she won’t tell you. I’ve always heard every ending is also a new beginning, we just don’t know it at the time. Do you believe that’s true, Derek?_  
“I do believe that is true, baby girl,” he cried, tears dampening the lined paper within his unsteady hands. “I do believe that is true.”


	7. Emily Prentiss

_Dear Mom,_  
_Remember the night we watched horror movie after horror movie, eating take out and popcorn pretty much the entire night? Remember the night we sat in your bed, cuddled in your blankets, and talked about girls and school and grades and butterflies and work and college and whatever else came to mind? Remember the night we decided to make pancakes around midnight but you burnt a majority of them so we went out for stale doughnuts instead?_  
_Remember the night you held me because some girl had shattered my heart, and you told me that every ending is also a new beginning, we just don’t know it at the time? I didn’t believe you. I don’t know why. Remember the night I came to the office, screaming about my acceptance into the school of my dreams? Remember the night we stayed up packing and packing for the dorm I would only live in for two semesters? You bought me so many things I wouldn’t even need, but you wanted to ensure I would be okay. Remember the night we fell asleep on the couch, waking up to Sergio eating our melted ice cream? We laughed for what seemed like hours._  
_Promise me you will only remember these nights._  
_Promise me you’ll eat more Italian, watch more baseball games, let yourself be loved, enjoy more nicknames and allow yourself to admit you need those around you._  
_Love you always,_  
_Sara_  
The animal within her chest thrashed relentlessly against its cage, whining to be released for it felt as though an unforgiving fist clenched around it, suffocating it. She clutched tightly at the black blankets and blue pillows and the large alligator that she had once hated, laying across a bed she seldom spent time within. Tsunamis of tears poured from her eyes, soaking plush animals and soft pillowcases and the sleeve of her black dress. Her entire body was gelatin, weakening with each released tear, and she could hardly catch her breath anymore, reading the words written for her, over and over. “I promise, my sweet girl. I promise it all for you,” she whispered into the stuffed reptiles head. “But mommy is going to need some time because…” Throat closing, narrowing around her words, she choked, coughing and coughing until her body shot up, gasping for any amount of fresh air. “Because…why Sara?” she screamed out the question, eyes staring at blurred original canvas paintings decorating grey walls. “Why didn’t you just tell me you were hurting, angel? Why didn’t you just lay with me and tell me your promise, Sara? How am I supposed to live without you?”  
Snatching a blue-cased pillow from against the dark headboard, she held it close to her chest, inhaling the lingering aroma of lavender and vanilla. “Why didn’t you just talk to me?” she whimpered. “I would’ve listened, Sara. I would’ve listened, and I would’ve tried with everything I have to help you.” The night that changed everything flashed in her mind, a memory worse than she had ever withheld, a nightmare she would live for the remainder of her life. Water flooding from the locked bathroom door, the door she had slammed her entire weight into in order to gain access. She screamed, cries echoing off of the four walls of the bathroom; she wailed, racing through the puddle of water and empty, floating pill bottles to the overflowing bathtub, pulling the limp, lifeless girl from within. Anxious, unsteady fingers searching for the slightest of pulses upon her frigid neck, upon her weak wrists. Screams grew louder with the realization that resuscitation deemed pointless, she was too late.  
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she muttered, returning to lay across the empty bed in her empty home. She could still hear the tiptoes of a three year old sneaking around the house. She could still hear the giggling of six year old running away from getting her hair combed. She could still hear the scratch of a pencil against printer paper, a nine year old taking her first interest in drawing. She could still hear the attitude of a thirteen year old who wanted to lock her door, and the attitude of the sixteen year old who wanted her own car. She could still hear the laughter of the eighteen year old who received a brand new car, and she could still hear the heartbreak of the twenty year old who had allowed an undeserving girl beyond her carefully constructed walls.  
She could still see the infant bundled in blues and yellows in her arms at two in the morning. She could still see the toddler waddling around, dragging a purple blanket behind her through the hallways and down the staircases. She could still see the second grader carrying her green backpack and matching lunchbox, climbing onto the bus on the first day of school. She could still see the freshman in high school, twirling in her maroon dress, worried about whether her classmates would poke fun at her. She could still see the eighteen year old, clutching the orange stuffed mascot in her arms while celebrating her acceptance into the school of her dreams. She could still see the twenty year old, pink phone and matching purse in hand, waving goodbye that morning, heading to a course.  
Crushing the pink envelope in hand, she stood slowly from the bed, hesitating to leave the bedroom. Instead, she turned to the painting hung above the headboard, the painting her daughter had showed her only three weeks previous after they shared a breakfast of waffles and laughter. Each member of her team, each individual was painted carefully without faces, including herself. Her daughter had even painted herself in the middle between the dark-skinned agent and herself, the background simply white around them.  
“I promise it all, Sara,” she weakly smiled with a shake of her head. And with that, she headed down the stairs, preparing herself for her own daughter’s funeral.


End file.
